These Little Things
by the Red Nothing
Summary: A fic that I like to put under the origanal genre "NAW", Nice and Happy, the opposite of angst. *ahem!* The year is AC 213. A certain little girl wakes up and thinks about her life so far as she gets ready for her day. (Not too exiting, ne?)


AN: No, I don't own Gundam Wing. Yeesh, it's been awhile since I've written a GW story anyway! This story is a kinda' genre I call NAH, for Nice And Happy, sorta' the opposite of Angst. It's really just a happy little slow-moving thing, and I don't expect many reviews from it, especially since it hasn't been extensively edited. But I hope you enjoy it anyway :).  
  
  
These Little Things  
by Akai Ku  
  
~L2 Colony Cluster, AC 213  
  
As usual, Helen was awake before her alarm clock. A glance at her bedside table told her the time was 5:57. Bopping the digital clock's alarm-off button before it could ring six as she sat up, Helen stretched and gazed around her familiar bedroom, as she did nearly every morning.  
  
It was no Peacecraft Mansion, as they say. Articles of clothing were strewn around the floor, along with wrenches, screws, and other mechanical appliances in the stead of toys. The only "toys" Helen owned were her favorite stuffed teddy bear, which "lived" on her bed, and two models of mobile suits from the Eve Wars sitting atop her single dresser, which had been painted meticulously by young hands. There were posters, but not of the things you'd expect to see in a twelve-year-old girl's room: One was of the famous boxer, Eric DuMere. Another featured characters from an action-packed (albeit cheesy) cartoon she'd liked when she was younger, Dragonball GT. She'd never bothered to take that thing down when she lost interest in the show. Besides, she thought, the wall there would look almost lonely with nothing there with it.  
  
The carpet had, at one point in time, probably been white. Over the years, as various axel-grease and food stains built up, Helen's mother had threatened numerous times to tear out the carpet and replace it with a new one. Helen had always begged her mom not to, and when she asked why she shouldn't, Helen would always reply, "I'm not sure yet, but give me time. I know there's a reason." Helen's father would always side with his little girl, and in the end the duo's efforts paid off: Now, the carpet stains had somehow formed a beautiful rainbow collage. Helen smiled at what she viewed as her mother's "neat-freakiness" as she gingerly set her bare feet onto the carpet and walked briskly out of her bedroom door toward the bathroom.  
  
Without making the bed.  
  
Helen fiddled with the faucets until she got just the right temperature, then turned the nozzle, sending the shower into action. She slipped her white nightshirt off over her head, then looked over her shoulder, into the mirror, allowing her to see the jagged scar that ran along the right side of her bare back. She'd gotten that scar when she was seven, crawling around on her parents' scrap-pile. Her hazel eyes flashed for a moment as she recalled the incident; There was so much pain that most people never had to face in their lifetime, let alone when they were a child. She remembered the blood, her mother's screams, her father's repeated "She's-gonna-be-all-right's" that had sounded less convincing with each passing moment, and the searing pain, surging through her body, her veins, places she never even knew had nerves before, burning in every single cell of her body until unconsciousness had claimed her, finally giving her peace.  
  
The doctors had been worried that the metal scrap that had caused the wound had damaged the nervous tissue in Helen's spinal cord. Fortunately, that was not the case, and three nights, ninety- two stitches, and countless tears later, Helen went home. Of course, she wasn't allowed to go to school for the next several weeks, let alone have any fun...  
  
"Crap," Helen hissed under her breath as water began against her toes. She'd been so filthy from repairing her friend's dad's motorcycle yesterday that her mom had pretty much forced her to soak in a bath instead of taking her usual shower. She'd forgotten to drain the tub, and became so lost in thought that the bathtub overflowed. She turned the valve and was greeted by the unmistakable sound of water draining. She finished undressing and stepped into the tub.  
  
Under the spray of the water, Helen fidgeted with her long braid until a raven cascade of hair at last fell down her back. Her father's long, chestnut braid came all the way down to his waist, while hers only reached halfway down her back. Weird, comparing ones braid to ones father's, but her father probably had the colony's finest braid, so here she was.  
  
After much lathering and scrubbing, Helen stepped out of the bathtub and grabbed a comb. Combing her hair had to be the single most boring thing in the world for her, but at least it gave her time to think about things. Like whether she would be needed soon in the shop. Saturday mornings could be busy, as people were usually up on Friday nights blasting their sound systems, racing their cars, and talking until the wee hours of the morning on their vidphones. However, for this very reason Saturday's could go by with no business until the afternoon; people were up all night partying. so naturally they'd sleep in. Helen set the comb down next to the sink and grabbed a rubber band from a drawer.  
  
Behind her head, her fingers worked automatically and smoothly, as if performing a dance. Pull back, loop, weave, pull back, loop, weave... It was all routine to her. Helen once again found her thoughts wandering to the scrap-pile. The child could be incredibly irresponsible and carefree, but when it came to the family's business, her mind was like a calculator. Helen was good in most subjects, particularly math, but her rowdiness got her into trouble to much to get her grades much recognition with her teachers. Well, other than the usual, "You're-a-bright-young-lady-you- should-be-better-behaved," speech. Helen really couldn't help it if some people in the world happened to be jerks, like the guys in her class that frequently stole the girls' lunch-money. And hey, jerks should get justice done to 'em, right? And in the case of sixth-grade-lunch-money-theft, justice came in the form of a swift punch in the face, curtesy of Helen M. Maxwell.  
  
"Helen," her mom had said, always the worrywart. "Someday those boys are going to be bigger and stronger than you are, and they're going to want to get back at you."  
  
Helen had winked broadly. "Bring 'em on." Helen's mom had thrown up her hands in defeat, while her father had laughed and treated her to a bowl of ice cream.  
  
Helen quickly toweled herself dry and dashed back into her bedroom, not bothering to put her dirty clothes down the laundry chute. Letting the towel drop to her feet, Helen glanced at the clock again: 6:21. She opened the bottom-most drawer in her dresser, causing Deathscythe and a standard Taurus to rattle violently, and snatched out a pair of socks and undergarments. Putting them on, she opened a random drawer and grabbed a random shirt (which happened to be a pink T), put it on quickly, and grabbed her favorite pair of work overalls off of the floor. They were a faded blue, gray splotches in several places from the numerous grease-stains that had flatly refused to come out. She fairly leapt into them, grabbed her pair of huge, black work-boots, laced them up, and charged out her door and down the stairs, making a left into the kitchen.  
  
  
Because her father was pretty much a moron in many (but not all) respects, he'd decided to put the Cheerios in the veeeeeeeeeery tippy-top shelf. Sighing, Helen did a pull-up onto the kitchen counter, stood up, grabbed the cereal box and leapt back down to the floor, causing the furniture to rattle. She smirked as she thought of her mom's reaction to bootprints on her spotless kitchen counter as she walked over to the dish cabinet and pulled out three bowls and glasses, then set them on the table with the box of Cheerios. Humming as she opened the refrigerator door, she grabbed a carton of milk and a bottle of OJ, and returned to the table, leaving the refrigerator door wide open as she prepared her family breakfast.  
  
She didn't normally do this, however. Usually, she didn't even make breakfast for herself in the morning, much less for her parents: Just run outside and get to work in the shop. Her parents had owned a huge scrap-pile since before Helen had even been a glimmer in their eyes. She had always been fascinated by it, loving to hear about how this or that worked or how some beam cannon fired, or even building her own little machines that whirred and turned their wheels if you oiled and wired them correctly, something only she knew how to do of all the people in the known universe. Her parents had been reluctant to let her "play" there, at first, especially after her accident, but she was persistent, and they'd finally given in. She worked there with her mom and dad now, cleaning supplies, explaining the goods to customers (her parents both loved to watch her do this. Her mom always said, with that special smile of hers that always made her dad look dizzy, that it was "just great," watching the expressions of these fancy-pants, stuck-up, know-it-all-looking men as a little 12-year-old girl would say to them, matter-of-factly yet casually: "This is a CX-440 Stabilizer Fuse, best used with TMM-6 S-2 CerianPlowTractors, though of course only those with serial numbers GNV-0015616 or higher (unless otherwise specified with the ESAICMSLA) because of the '06 defect dilemma that involved unsuitable frames made of tungsten-alloy before they were replaced with the new orichallem compound, but of course you already knew that so I recommend..."), or making her own machines between shifts. She never asked for anything extra, allowance-wise, for this, but after her parents found out that she was cleaning the two giant disarmed Mobile Suits that the family used for traveling quickly from colony to colony, her mom had insisted she get at LEAST fifty extra Credits a week. Very quickly, Helen found herself with a very full twelve-year-old CashPad.  
  
She looked over the meal she'd prepared: Two glasses of milk, one glass of orange juice, and three bowls of Cheerios, one milkless. Helen never really had liked milk. However, it was a beautiful Saturday morning, she didn't have to go to school OR church, and maybe the sun and the bird songs were just doing things to her head this morning, and she felt like doing something special.  
  
Shoving the drink-containers back into the fridge and slamming the door with her hip, grabbing three spoons from a drawer and dropping them into the cereal bowls, causing three "plip, plop, clank" sounds, and went to the front door. She opened it and immediately found herself staring down at a very familiar face. She grinned, ran back inside, scribbled a quick note to her parents, then dashed out with the newspaper, still humming, slamming the door behind her.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Duo Maxwell stood by the kitchen window, the strong and wonderful smell of homemade waffles alerting him that his wife was cooking behind him. All of his attention at that moment, however, was outside the kitchen window wearing faded overalls and had a newspaper in her hand, scrambling over piles of this or that like a young colt, singing to herself merrily using lyrics she was obviously making up as she went along, with her long raven braid trailing behind her wherever she went, no matter how she tried to lose it. He smiled and once again looked down at the note written in childish scrawl in his left hand:  
  
~~Mom and Dad,  
~Enjoy your breakfast. I've got the paper. Uncle Quatre's finally getting married! (guess who?) ~I'll let you guys read it when I get in. I just went out to the pile to do a few little things.   
  
~ Love, Helen   
  
A big heart had been doodled at the bottom of the note. Duo was vaguely aware of a presence next to him. He put his arm around his wife.  
  
"She's beautiful, isn't she?" Hilde stated, smiling up at him. Duo sighed happily and planted a kiss in her hair.   
  
"Who d'ya mean: Her or you? Right now, I'm havin' a pretty hard time deciden' which."   
  
Hilde giggled and leaned on her husband's shoulder, watching their daughter with him. After all of the hardships they'd faced, all the lies, all the death, all of the suffering, they'd found the light at the end of the tunnel. That light was symbolized in their beautiful, playful daughter, who had the spirit and will that, God forbid, if she had to go through what they had, she would triumph and survive for sure.  
  
Duo grinned to himself as he gazed at Helen. Yeah, the little things were the most important things of all.  
  
  
~Fin~  
  
Sooo... Did you like it? ^^  



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